


Lullaby

by ColtsAndQuills



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, TW: Nightmares, Team Free Will, tw: insomnia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:23:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColtsAndQuills/pseuds/ColtsAndQuills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Based off the imagine prompt:</b> Imagine TFW finding out that the sleeping pills you take every night don’t stop the nightmares; they just keep you from screaming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullaby

It had been a few weeks since you had begun your stay at the bunker. The three of them could have cast you out from the start — they had already fulfilled their role as heroes, saved you from a gruesome end; it seemed selfish to ask for anything more. Still, that didn’t stop the brothers from opening up their home to you. At first, you figured they only saw you as another piece to the puzzle, a victim to keep safe, just in case you could prove useful in the investigation into the world’s latest imminent destruction. But as time passed, something changed. Whether it was the fact that Sam had a cup of coffee waiting for you every morning, or how Dean sometimes roughly mussed your hair in passing, or the way Castiel would make those terribly awkward but sweet attempts at conversation on your quieter days, you felt less and less like an intruder, and more like one of the team.

Which is why you started taking the pills.

The first time you woke up screaming, Dean had reached you first. He had rushed into your room, hair ruffled, shirt off, ready to defend even though his eyes were squinting and bleary with sleep.

The second night it happened, it was Sam who came. He made an extra show of checking out your room, inspecting dark corners and crannies which you both knew were perfectly safe, ignoring the way you shamefully turned your face from his, trying to give you the sense of security that eluded you every time your eyes closed for the night.

By the third evening, it was expected. Castiel didn’t say a word. He merely came to your bedside, his cool, dry hand placed to your damp forehead, his touch gentle and constant until your heart slowed and you shakily tumbled back into sleep.

Not once did they say or do anything to make you feel like a burden, but the guilt was there, all the same. You didn’t want to be the weak one. And while the pills didn’t make you feel any stronger, they could at least hide your vulnerability from the others.

For a while, it worked. The memory of the way they had looked at you, so happy and relieved the morning after your first silent night, was one which you kept painfully close to your heart. They believed you were healing. Two chalky pills a night were a small price to pay to maintain that illusion.

However, you can’t con a con artist, as Dean might say, and the deception wasn’t to last.

The brothers sat on opposite sides of your bed, as Cas stood flush against the bedpost. It had taken them a while to pull you from your nightmare, and though Dean tried to keep them behind the sleeve of his bathrobe, you had spotted the long scratches lining his forearm.

"How long?" the older Winchester demanded. His voice sounded angry, but his eyes told a different story.

You couldn’t bare to face them, so you stared down at your hands, which were clasped tightly to the edge of your sheet. As usual, it had been almost completely pulled free of the mattress. A few of the blankets hung halfway to the floor, kicked aside as you thrashed against intangible terrors.

"We knew you were still having trouble sleeping," Sam began. You looked up in alarm, and he hurriedly continued. "You’ve been so quiet, but…" He touched his forefinger to the skin below his eye. You knew your own was dark and puffy, but you had hoped the dabs of concealer, hastily applied before leaving your room every morning, had been helping.

"And you’ve been easily distracted," Cas added, not unkindly. "You’ve been trying your best, but you are unrested."

"It’s not a big deal," you objected, but the lie was squashed under the weight of their concerned stares.

Dean glanced to the side and made a quick swipe of his hand over his jaw.

You braced yourself for what you were sure was to come next: a pity-fueled discussion on how dreams were just dreams; tiresome adages about putting the past behind you; and, worst of all, maybe even the useless, if well-meaning, suggestion to “just relax.”

"What makes you so tough that you can go this alone? You think you’re the only one who has nightmares?"

The words come as a shock. Enough so that you finally raise your head to face him.

"What?"

"People have nightmares over the crap Hollywood slings out, and you feel guilty for having a few bad dreams after surviving the real deal?"

Dean was trying to be kind, in that tough-love way of his, but he didn’t understand.

"What he means is … it’s okay to be afraid," Sam attempted a more gentle approach, but the words were still sandpaper on the wound.

"Within these walls, you’re protected," Cas added. "Nothing can hurt you."

"You don’t get it!" Your chest grew tight with anxiety, but your mouth wouldn’t quit. Emotions that had been dammed for too long swelled over your lips. "Yeah, I’m scared about the stuff out there, but I’m way more scared of myself!"

That shut them up. A part of you wished they would leave it at that. They could go away, and none of you would bring it up in the morning. In a few days, everyone would be happier to pretend that your little secret had never been discovered.

But a different part of you, that whisper in the back of your mind, the one always making you feel guilty for the deception and reminding you of how lonely you are, was now speaking up. It demanded your honesty, if even only for this one moment, regrets be damned.

None of them pushed. They seemed to understand that all they needed was to wait.

"I…" You inhaled slowly, exhaled. "These nightmares… I screw up in them. And I get hurt. People around me get hurt. I can’t escape, I can’t help! People reach out to me — _you three_  reach out to me — and I can’t do a thing about it. I’m useless, and … and … don’t you get it?

“I’m not strong like you are.” Your eyes met Dean’s. “I’m not brilliant.” Sam bit back his objection. “And I’m not able to save anyone.” Castiel’s face fell. “I’m terrified I’m not going to be good enough, and one of these days…”

You stopped. Speaking of the worst aloud felt too risky, as if setting a jinx in motion.

"Is that all?" Dean asked with relief. Sam shot him a warning look, and you saw Cas stiffen. He didn’t pay mind to either and pressed on. "There’ve been plenty of times when we thought we were completely S-O-L, but here we are."

Your lips pulled downward, but before you could argue about the Winchesters’ brand of luck, Cas had crouched down to your eye-level.

"I’m not entirely sure I understand Dean’s point, but I think there’s some truth, there. Remember, as your kind tells it, it took God seven days to create the world. Which, of course, is a manner of figurative speech, as the period was more of a succession of light and darkness rather than a delimited unit of time—"

"Cas, not helping," interrupted a weary Sam. Castiel gave him a puzzled glance before nodding, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"What I’m trying to explain is — with time, much is possible. You do not need to demand perfection of yourself. Each day, you humans grow in your own way, even if you don’t realize it. It’s really very remarkable, given your short life span and imminent mortali—"

"To sum up, you have full permission to fuck up tomorrow. Or the day after that. And if you do, we’ll be here to help clean up when shit hits the fan." Dean brushed his knuckles against your jaw in a mock jab.

Castiel appeared ready for a follow-up question, probably wanting some clarity about why, exactly, shit would be anywhere near a fan in the first place, so Sam pressed on before the angel could interject. “He’s right. But you know, even if we weren’t here, you’re still not alone. Trust me, we’ve all got our demons and fears and failures to face. Some of us have it worse than others, some of us are just better at hiding it … but it’s something everyone has to deal with at some point.”

"So don’t think for a second that it makes you weak," Dean chimed in.

Cas’ smiles were rare but genuine. He shared one with you now, looking at you with a warmth and respect that batted away at your insecurities. “It makes you human.”

They said it with such certainty, without the condescension and judgement you so regularly exercised on yourself, that the ugly thoughts you had been hiding behind began to crack, a fissure finally made:

Sam’s eyes moved to your nightstand, where the top drawer was open a crack. He couldn’t have seen the prescription bottle in there, but it had taken enough effort to wake you that it was obvious to the three of them how you had managed to suppress your screams.

A pang of insecurity paled your smile. “Still so sure I’m strong?”

"Yep," Dean replied, not missing a beat. In harder times, his own medicine came packaged in glass bottles rather than orange plastic.

"Do they help?" asked Sam.

"They get me to sleep, but not much else…"

"Look. If they help, they help. No shame in that."

"Medicine is meant to heal," Cas confirmed.

"But emphasis on  _heal_.” Your face filled with heat as Dean’s arm slipped around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. Even through the fluff of the robe he was solid. Strong. However, it was the words that followed that truly made you feel safe. “You take it to get better, not to hide.”

Sam smiled at you, and you could swear the room seemed a little brighter for it. “And when you wake up —  middle of the night, next morning, whatever — we can talk it out. Sometimes it helps.”

They stayed with you till morning. The conversation occasionally ebbed on the side of seriousness, but for the most part, it was kept distracting and fun, the talk and banter covering everything from upcoming roadtrips to which bad dreams had Sam crawling into Dean’s bed as a kid. While they were with you, things seemed easier, and the thought of sleep didn’t seem so terrifying.

When the sun rose, though, and the brothers retreated to catch a few hours of rest before starting the day, Cas in their wake, fear traced its sharp nails along your spine. You burrowed more deeply under the covers, trying to ignore the shadows that invaded the comforting memories of the last few hours.

It took longer than it should have, but eventually, sleep came.

Suddenly, you were sitting in a familiar place — your old home. It was where you had originally met the three of them. Sunlight poured past a fluttering curtain, and a few birds flit across your window. There was the sound of kids kicking a ball in the street, and a second later, a car irritatedly honking to get them to move out of the way.

All of it spoke of tranquil familiarity, but you knew better. The dreams often started this way, sweet and alluring, if not flat-out mundane. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before the colors began to fade, as if you were trapped within an aging photograph.

Running never did any good, but you stood anyway, preparing for the inevitable fight or flight. There came the sound of a creak behind you, a footstep on the floor. Muscles drawn tight, you spun about to face your subconsciousness’ terror of the hour…

“Please excuse the intrusion.”

“Cas?!”

It wasn’t the first time you were seeing him in your dreams, but this time, somehow he seemed different. The blue of his eyes, the bare thread peeking out from a pocket of his trenchcoat — the details felt too perfect, too real.

“Don’t be afraid. I assure you, it’s me.”

You took a tentative step toward him and reached out for a poke. He humored you as your fingertip brushed against the rough texture of his cheek.

“How did you… ? This is a dream, right?”

He was looking around the room curiously, taking in the details of your past. “Yes. It’s not the easiest of feats, but angels can visit humans through their dreams.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “You mean you can spy on our dreams?!”

The angel grimaced. “I wouldn’t say  _spy_. Think of it as a means of communication. Or… guarding.”

He waited, letting the weight of that last word settle in. As it did, the walls became a little brighter, the sky outside regained some of its lost blue.

“You can keep the nightmares away,” you whispered.

Castiel gave a tight, regretful shake of his head. “Not always, no. If only…”

And for a moment, you knew it wasn’t only you he was thinking of.

The troubled look passed. He reached out in an unexpected move, catching your chin lightly.

“But I will watch over you. See you through them when I can. When  you’re in need, you might not always see me, you may not hear me.”

The angel leaned in, his lips close to your ear.

“But I’ll be there, protecting you. Remember me when you can’t find peace at night. I’ll find my way back to you.”

A small noise escaped the back of your throat, and you were alarmed to realize you were on the verge of crying. For once, however, they were the good kind of tears. The type that cleansed wounds, allowed scars to heal.

“Shh.”

Before you could find a way to say thank you, his hand passed to your eyes, lightly sweeping them closed.

“Sleep, now. And have sweet dreams.”

And for the first time in a long time, you did.

**Author's Note:**

> Original found on tumblr at: [TWsupernaturalimagine](http://twsupernaturalimagine.tumblr.com/post/100754883220/lullaby-one-shot)


End file.
